Of course it does! It also produces nitrogenous metabolic waste (pee) but it all goes out the same way.
For illustrative purposes: here’s how to charge your phone when it’s alive, full of guts, and you are a crab alien who lives in the sea. Scuds are dreadful little libertarians so there’s very little global (or sometimes even local) standardization for stuff like port compatibility and symbols, so assume this is one of many varieties of power cable.
“Don’t get me wrong, the festivities themselves sound thrilling,” Astarion said, quickly. “The chance of wandering around all night without suspicion, wearing fancy and dramatic outfits, pick-pocketing with no consequence… what’s not to love, especially for a vampire and a rogue like yours truly?” He exaggerated the sing-song in his voice to amuse Staeve, and he was rewarded by a small, charmed smile. He cleared his throat before continuing, a sudden tightness strangling him. “I just have—poor memories of the Night itself.”
a halloween-adjacent fic where astarion and staeve share their experiences with the holiday, and end up having a deeper conversation than either of them expected
https://archiveofourown.org/works/60278542
staeve belongs to @velnna, thank you as always for letting me play with your boy ♥ also sorry for the spam i forgor about tumblr
A/N: Yes hello, I know I haven't posted something I wrote in quite a while. Let's just say I've been busy, but mostly behind the scenes. This however I had written quite a while ago (end of June I think) and I need to get back into the saddle again with posting. So here we are, another trip into Regency AU with @velnna's beloved Staeve (thanks as always for letting me stick him in a costume) and Astarion. Picking off where we left off after the chaise longue incident.
Summary: With a lot mixed feelings after what almost happened between them, a scorching letter is written that reveals genuine truths and brilliant emotions. But the response might not have been what either of them had hoped for...
Hands hastily tore open an envelope. On it, in elegant cursive handwriting that couldn’t be mistaken for anyone but Astarion’s, a name was written, boldly and with gold ink even: Staeve Brimstone.
Shivering fingers took several pages from the torn away paper and unfolded them. Immediately, it was visible that the letter had been written with a plethora of intense emotions: some parts seemed barely readable as if the pen had scarcely made its way across the paper in hesitancy. Others were quite obviously written with such vigour, that the sheets were almost torn and stained with blots of ink from a pen that had been pressed too harshly and hastily onto the paper - way too eager to get out the words.
The hands holding onto the letter kept trembling as the letter was studied. It read:
“My dearly beloved Staeve,
It seems we’ve gotten ourselves in quite the compromising position, haven’t we?Apparently, we do have a knack for this kind of thing, don’t you agree? It is nothing new for either of us, truly. How often have we gotten in trouble for something over the years? Quite frankly it might be a big part of the reason why my parents will finally be sending me off to the continent. I figure they fear what two - now grown - young men could get themselves into. And wouldn’t they be right?
A million times have we conspired together. A million plans. A million times it was us against the world. Together.
To our own surprise we haven’t always been discovered. But then again too often than we would have hoped. And yet we have always gotten out of a cornered situation.
This time it is different though.
I take it your sister hasn’t taken notice of what has happened that night. Or it might be that she doesn’t care - I was never able to read her well. And I do not dare to push her on the matter.
What could have happened had we been discovered in that moment? Truly discovered?
But to be quite frank that isn’t what I am concerned with. Not if I am being honest with myself.
You know I am a man of few regrets, Staeve. But I do regret having left like I did that fateful night. My mind kept whispering malicious things to me while my chest was burning, set ablaze by you and your lips. My heart was prepared to scream it all from the rooftops. But yet my anxious mind had me flee like lest we be found out.
But yet my heart keeps burning, the flames impossible to smother. I promise you I’ve tried. Only to find them flickering higher, brighter, hotter, whenever I tried.
And it has been hard to calm it for even just a moment since that fateful night on that chaise longue.
In the end, it has won over my mind even quicker than I thought as I still feel my chest burn with every single beat of my yearning heart. This is what my mind has been toiling with. This and the enticing idea of what would have happened had we not been disturbed, this impossible game of “what if”.
Would we have lost ourselves within each other, unravelled by our hands and touches. Would we have been void of words with only our bodies to speak the yet unspoken? Would we have gone all the way into oblivion together torn and then reformed together. And all to only be unravelled again and again until there had been nothing left but strings?
Strings we might have been able to have knitted into something new, something thoroughly intertwined?
Only the heavens may know.”
The words at the end of this page were thin; anxiously so. The author’s worries and fears clear already by how the words seemed to trail off at the bottom. In hopes perhaps, that they could just be shaken off the page lest they fall on deaf ears.
The next fresh page though started with bold writing again, even bolder than before. The written words proud, tall and unashamed:
“But I do know this: at night I lay unable to sleep with that blistering desire inside of me, slowly scorching me from the inside out. And when the heat becomes near unbearable, I lay there with nothing but the moon as a witness, touching myself while imagining - hoping - it was you. My hands wandering down over my own body and finding pleasure so easily and quickly - so intense - as they stroke and caress. Simply because it is you in my mind. The thought of you nearly enough to lose myself time and again.
I know I am a sinner for this, for my thoughts and my actions. But could a sin truly feel this heavenly? If this is what hell feels like, I will let it take me, gladly. I would welcome doom with open arms for just my actions, but truly, I’d much rather be doomed together with you, Staeve.
The feeling of your mouth on mine has been imprinted on me. I cannot forget it. I will die with the memory of your soft lips on mine on my mind as the last breath leaves my earthly body.
You've touched me a thousand times - a hug, a tap, a taunt - but not like this. Never like this. Not with that enticing intention, not with that need: giving, pleasing but also taking - possibly all of me. And if I’m being true and honest to myself: I would give you all of myself - body, mind and soul. You may take it all!
Do you feel the same? Because even writing this letter I feel how restless my fingers are, how they itch to touch you again as well, how they need to feel you again: your lithe body, the skin of your face, your silken hair.
I just want to feel the warmth of you again, enveloping me, your body moving against mine as we fall together, endlessly.
And when your hands know me by heart, I want to feel your mouth all over my skin, tasting me before swallowing my confessions to you directly from my very own lips and tongue.
I want you to know me as deeply as no one has before. I fear no one else could ever understand me like you do anyways. And I hope, dearly, this is what you want too. I surely know it’s what I want with you: knowing you inside and out, better than myself.
Back in that moment it surely felt like that.
But memories are fleeting, fickle little things. Already I am questioning if I really saw the same yearning in your eyes I keep feeling in my very soul. But then again, it's not like this only transpired yesterday, hasn't it? Hasn’t this all been brewing for what feels like an eternity?”
Up until this paragraph the writing had been bold, the elegant cursive letters leaning so far it was easily distinguishable that they had been written without pause. Words that had been too powerful to not let out.
But those next ones were more hesitant again. The pen had been pressed down to start many a time and then hastily taken off again, judging by how several blots and scratches of ink clouded the first letter of the next sentence.
But in the end even these words had found their way - either way:
“I reckon you know the feeling in the atmosphere before a thunderstorm approaches - when the tension is so dense it makes your hairs rise up. When the whole world seems to hold its breath, awaiting the inevitable.
Aren’t we just like that? Awaiting what deep down we have known for so long?
Aren’t we inevitable?
How long have we been like this? In that terrible limbo of potential and not yet made resolution?
Only for it to unload in but a blink of an eye, lightning hitting us both, scorching us through and through, down to our furthest depths - setting us brightly ablaze where light has never even reached before.
There is no way in which we could ever proceed, pretending as if we both haven’t been changed forever in this moment, changed at our innermost core - wouldn’t you agree?
At times I fear that all it would have taken was that one night. One night of scorching flames to then see the fire smothered. This - us - nothing but a quick intermezzo, a short crescendo that is quickly muffled and not to be heard again.
But whenever I think I’ve forgotten about this, about you, for a just moment, there it is again: the thought of you, impossible to get out of my head.
You are always there with me, Staeve, with every breath and every step.
You didn’t just light a candle inside of me, you started a wildfire.
And I welcome it - with all the heat, all the power, all the destruction it might bring but also the all encompassing warmth it might spend. I welcome it to be consumed by it!”
Before the final words of the letter there was generous space left. Quite obviously the author felt the need to let his final words take up room. The final conclusion to the letter read:
“I am in love with you, Staeve Brimstone.
I am in love with you - and looking back it feels like I have always been in love with you. From the moment I first laid eyes upon you up to the my last moments on this earth.
And even more than that: I need you. I fear I cannot live without you.
And even though it might be selfish - but we both know that I am -: I hope you need me too.
I hope to love you, Staeve, forevermore. And if I’m fortunate enough, that you will love me too.
Forever yours,
Astarion”
As eyes ran over the last page, the hands holding the letter had begun to tremble. They were gripping the paper so hard by now that knuckles showed white.
Then when the end had been reached they were shaking so much no word could have been made out anymore. The grip was crinkling up the paper now. Up until the pages were deliberately being crumpled angrily, pressed into a ball of paper, letters and emotions alike forced into an indiscernible mess.
With a few steps only, the way was made to the lit fireplace and the pages were given to the flames. The fire eagerly licked at the papers, ate it up until there was nothing left of the words and the long suppressed feelings they had finally expressed.
~~~
The Brimstone family had sat down for dinner. Or at least for their approximation of it. Viscount and Viscountess Brimstone were idly enjoying their dinner talking a bit of business, politics and gossip. Meanwhile, their son Staeve was more enticed by the workings of a small golden mechanical beetle his father had brought him as a souvenir from one of his business trips than by the meagre meal of roasted pork and vegetables he’d thrown onto his plate as more of an afterthought. The sleeves of his white linen shirt were rolled up to his elbows as he had discarded his doublet long ago to be able to move better and one of his suspenders threatened to give up on its job as it was dropping off his shoulder in his hunched over position. He had wholly reengineered what dinner time meant for him, much to the grievance of his parents. But dozens of tries to change first the boy’s and then the young man’s behaviour had failed. So at some point they had given up as long as he knew to behave when guests were over and was still honouring the family gathering times.
That usually meant that he was at least present during family dinner times, physically at least. But he’d only eat later, once it had all gotten cold. And then would sneak into the kitchen to grab seconds when he would have realised once more that tinkering around didn’t sate his bodily hunger. At least not enough.
His mother had long given up on trying to teach Staeve manners. When he had been a child she had been sure he would grow out of it. But once she had realised that his quirks had only been growing with him, she’d come to realise that it was for the best to just leave him be and hope for the best.
Only occasionally did she still try to enforce his older sister Nita as a role model to him. It never worked.
So, as Staeve was fumbling with his current project and his parents were lost in conversation, his sister Nita - void of any option to make dinner time pass any faster with her parents talking and her brother with his mind elsewhere - moved around some asparagus on her gold rimmed plate and wished she could’ve found an excuse to go eat with her younger siblings in the kitchen. Even they would have been a more ample entertainment discussing their playtime or perhaps their current tutor lessons.
That was until she thought of a way of hopefully grabbing Staeve’s attention for more than a fleeting moment.
“So, Staeve, have you found something to do yet, something to cope?”
Her brother’s tuft of green hair lifted shortly from where it had been bent over the small, intricately built beetle and some similarly delicate tool with which Staeve meant to dismantle the small object - thereby probably irreparably destroying it.
But the younger Brimstone shortly looked at his sister in irritation. Then his gaze snapped back to his hands and his workings and he began tinkering again.
“What?”
Nita rolled her eyes. “You know you are supposed to use full sentences, right?”
“Whoever has the time for that?”
“Ah see, he does speak in full sentences.”
Staeve grunted at his sister’s sarcasm but didn’t reward her with another glance.
Nita tried again.
“So have you?”
“I don’t think that was a full sentence.”
She was about ready to throw her fork at him, hoping it would drive the audacity right out of him - or at least take an eye. For a moment she debated just letting the silence draw out. But honestly she hadn’t been the one starting to be petty.
“You know, Staeve, I really get why even Astarion has decided to suddenly leave town when you’re being such a prick!” Nita almost shouted. That even had caught her parents’ attention now who immediately scolded her for her unladylike demeanour and choice of words.
She pouted, annoyed at how she had been the one being called out now instead of her brother.
And when she turned her head around again to throw him an angry glare she suddenly found she had finally caught his attention. Maybe even a bit too much of it because Staeve was now staring at her, eyes wide, face void of colour.
“What do you mean Astarion is leaving?”
Nita was about to snap at him again. But something in her brother’s gaze and his sudden stillness made her abandon the thought immediately.
“Didn’t- didn’t he tell you? I thought you always knew everything about each other.”
Immediately hurt flashed through Staeve’s teal eyes, too irritated to even try to hide it.
“Leaving when? Why?” Staeve’s voice was nothing more but a croak. A strand of hair had fallen into his eyes. He didn’t even bother pushing it out of his face.
Suddenly Nita felt unsure of what to do. Unsettled by her brother’s sudden burst of emotions. The only thing she came up with was snapping at him again.
“The Grand Tour, you idiot, what else.”
Staeve’s eyes widened even more. He set the small golden beetle and his tool down with a distinct thud, so hard, it even made their parents become silent and turn to their children in irritation.
“When?” Staeve simply followed up again. His words were terribly silent all of a sudden. Nita didn’t have it in her anymore to try and purposefully try and upset her brother. She threw a glance at the big mechanical clock - one of the few Staeve hadn’t disassembled yet: “I think right about now. They’re probably going to travel all through the night to catch a ship in the morning at one of the great harbours.”
Staeve didn’t wait for Nita to finish her sentence. He jumped up, almost making his chair fall over, staring at the clock. Their parents’ heads swivelled around trying to understand the cause of the commotion. But their son was already storming out of the room, not even sparing their scolding and quizzical looks another thought.
Immediately, Staeve made his way through the manor and down to the stables. As he rushed along servants, through a plethora of rooms and finally got outside, he realised that the weather was about to turn: an early summer evening threatening to bring a foreshadowing of yet far away autumn. The oncoming storm, announcing itself with distant thunder and dramatically darkening clouds, though, only felt like a fitting backdrop for what was brewing inside of him.
Questions filled Staeve’s mind as he made his way, and worries - and memories.
Every moment for the last couple of weeks since that fateful night had he basically been thinking about what happened. It only ever took him a split second to conjure up the scene again in his head: the last couple of breaths in which he had stared into Astarion’s eyes and how it had felt like he could see through them right to the bottom of his friend’s heart, the burning feeling of Astarion’s lips against his own and this desiring ache within him, physically and emotionally, threatening to rip him apart from the inside out.
He had been so sure Astarion had felt the same. And hadn’t his friend been the one looking up at him with such pleading in his crimson eyes, lips already parted in anticipation before they had met halfway?
But maybe Staeve was remembering it all wrong. He certainly must be. Why else would his lifelong companion leave him now unannounced?
Loads of feelings were forming up inside his chest, waiting to burst - like thunder after lightning had struck in the far off distance.
Staeve made his way to the stables to grab Freckle while his mind was somewhere completely else. He didn’t even stop to put a saddle or reins on her. A terrible premonition told him he hadn’t any time to waste. And the mare was used to being ridden like this, after all they were a well-practised team.
The young Brimstone led his horse outside and immediately felt raindrops seeping through his thin linen shirt and trousers. He couldn’t have cared less. Wasting no more time he jumped onto his mare’s back and with a click of his tongue and soft nudge from his boots they were off in a dash, cutting through the oncoming rain.
As Staeve thundered down the small trodden out road from the Brimstone estate towards the Ancuníns’ residence the rain turned from just a trickle to a pour - the kind that would turn grasslands into swamps for a good while after and dust roads into murky rivers. His mind was racing at an even more outrageous speed as the gigantic manor of his friend’s family came into view.
Lifting his head while holding onto Freckle’s mane as the horse felt his owner’s urgency and gave him her all, Staeve searched for the familiar sight of that one particular window with a light on inside, hoping it would betray his sister’s words. The one where Astarion often already had been peeking out of in wait for his companion to come by. The one where they had sat countless of times, talking, laughing, smoking some stolen cigars and choking on the burning smoke when they had been only boys.
But the lights were off.
And Staeve’s fears turned into all encompassing panic as he closed in on the giant building as he didn’t dare to let himself hope anymore. The rain around him had him fully drenched by now, his loose shirt clinging wetly to his body. Already he felt hot tears adding to the uncomfortably cold rain running down his face.
When he finally came around the manor, he found nothing but an ill-fated stable hand rushing through the downpour, perhaps tasked with a few last things before being allowed to flee the bad weather. Not even hesitating Staeve rode up right next to him making the poor boy shriek and stumble back from the horse making the gravel fly with a sliding stop.
“Astarion Ancunín?” he only managed to scream against the rain.
The boy just stared up at him, obviously too startled at the sight of Staeve like this. He probably looked like a madman. And he felt like one: not properly dressed, drenched to the bone on his equally aggregated steed. Even more so the more time he spent chasing down a man in this storm who so obviously tried to get away from him without him knowing.
But he needed to see him, at least a final time. One more try.
“The Duke’s son?” Staeve shouted again at the stable hand. And finally the boy seemed to have recovered from his stupor.
“Left. With his father the Duke, in the fancy carriage,” the answer came back, shouted against another thunder in the distance - the heart of the storm was coming closer.
Staeve’s chest clenched. Freckle became nervous beneath him. Even a well trained horse like her didn’t want to be out longer than needed in this weather. But just a moment more.
“When?” he screamed.
“Dunno exactly, couple of minutes, just when the storm started.”
Staeve needn’t hear more. Time was of the essence now. He spurred on his horse once more and left the befuddled boy behind who even forgot to finally rush inside and instead stared after Staeve racing off again.
The roads were already muddy, an endless amount of puddles strewn across them while Staeve made the decision to go for the hill overlooking the Ancunín lands, the one with the weeping willow. There he’d be able to see how far out they were already on the country road leading away from town.
But when he arrived at the foot of said hill and dashed on with Freckle, his horse slipped and almost took a tumble. And since his or his horse’s broken neck surely wouldn’t make him be any faster, Staeve slid off his mare’s back and continued on foot.
The rain kept pouring onto him as he rushed up the hill, his booted feet sinking into the wet ground. Several times he almost took a tumble when his boots sank in too deep. Illustrious curses that would have made his mother blush and his father scold him, left Staeve’s lips as he ran up the grassy hill as fast as possible, barely able to see anything anymore with the rain slashing his face. He didn’t even notice how the freezing cold crept into his body, his limbs, how his fingers began to become stiff. His whole body was shaking, as much from the cold and the wet, as from the feelings still burning inside his chest - the only thing still spending a bit of warmth.
Staeve reached the top of the hill and the weeping willow atop of it - honouring its name as rain kept dripping generously off its tendrils. Trying to wipe at least some of the rain out of his face and panting heavily from running, Staeve’s eyes flew along the road leading out of town, willing the carriage to be there, so he’d know he could still catch them. Or at least a glimpse, of him. To at least wave a last goodbye. Because he didn’t know when - if - his friend would ever return.
And he spotted the carriage. Right there, at the very end of what Staeve could make out. Just before it disappeared around a final turn of the road - and out of sight.
~~~
Inside the carriage Astarion was craning his neck only a little to see Ancunín manor slowly disappear behind the lazily sloping hills of the countryside as the wagon rattled along the road leading away from town. Now the ancient weeping willow was the last familiar landmark before the road would lead them along faceless fields and forests rushing past them, only there to be forgotten again in an instance. The storm was doing its part to make Astarion’s last impression of his home even more dull: clouds and the rain almost washing all of the colours out of this final sight.
This might very well have been the only time in his life when his heart actually ached at the thought of leaving home - or rather him.
Only a few weeks ago had he hoped to spend an incredible last summer with Staeve, his childhood friend. Especially as he had been sure of something new budding between them, something that could have meant them being more than companions possibly. Something that either might have been honestly terrified to explore. They could have gone down this road together.
But it seemed that instead of choosing this final adventure and what treasures and secrets might have been ahead, Staeve had chosen utter and complete silence. To his letter as much as his departure. Astarion had been unable to figure out what to make of it.
However, wasn’t the absence of an answer a response of its own?
Questions, regrets, fear and hurt were all swirling around inside of Astarion’s chest as he feigned indifference staring out the small window the rain kept drumming on. He was covering most of his face with his hand turned away from the other passenger in hopes it would make him look bored and hide his frown - and more than anything, the tears burning dangerously in the corners of his eyes.
Writing that letter, taking a leap of faith had taken nearly all of his courage.
When that kiss had happened after that invaded soiree, it had been easy. Fueled by the evening, laughter and lots of liquid courage it had been easy to fall into Staeve’s arms. It had been easy to be open about what had been building up inside of him for so long.
But writing this letter stone cold sober had been near impossible: opening up about everything that, all his life, he had been taught to keep hidden behind his orderly closed button border, tugged away behind a starched collar closed so firmly it made one choke. Admitting to desires that would make him a wretched sinner in the eyes of his family and society. And finally confessing his feelings to his lifelong friend, risking everything they’ve had. It had been taxing, hard, painful.
And in the end, apparently, he had paid the price.
In front of him, the Duke Ancunín kept talking about their travelling plans while Astarion could feel his heart get torn into pieces the further away from home they travelled. A piece of it begging to be allowed to stay.
“Son, it is a great honour that Monsignore Constantin will take you in for a few extra weeks as his disciple. He is very strict but he is the best,” the Duke repeated his words in a sharper tone when he noticed his son not paying attention. “He will make an upright man out of you, Astarion, I know it.”
“Oh, will he? I can barely wait,” Astarion replied with bitter sarcasm in his voice. His father, in response, was near boiling with anger at his son’s insolent behaviour.
“He has his methods, son, you will see. He will let none of your nonsense slip, I will make sure of it!” The Duke’s words cracked like a whip. But the young man didn’t care, his eyes were still trained on the outside, on the weeping willow becoming smaller in the distance. He didn’t honour his father’s wrath with another response.
The carriage filled with nothing but the sound of drumming rain and thunder rolling ever closer. When the older Ancunín apparently realised his anger would get him nowhere he tried a different route of grasping his son’s attention.
“Hasn’t the young Brimstone come to say his goodbyes to you, my son? Is that why you keep brooding?”
Astarion’s gaze snapped to his father, immediately betraying that he had spoken the truth. He felt how his brows drew together as pain flared up in his chest even more. Trying to get it back under control quickly he looked back outside the window as the carriage shook along the road in worsening conditions.
But his father had cracked right open what had been bothering him and finally Astarion gave up on trying to hide. What did it matter now anyways? The cards had been dealt.
The young Ancunín let his hands fall into his lap but kept looking outside as he felt how the tears in his eyes threatened to become overbearing.
“He hasn’t actually,” Astarion admitted. “In fact, I haven’t seen him in a few weeks. Not since I’ve sent him a letter a while ago,” he continued, voice flat and emotionless.
“A letter? How uncommon for the two of you,” the Duke threw in with a tinge of irony coating his words like bile. In a knee jerk reaction Astarion’s crimson gaze burned in anger at his father’s vile words. But in the end he wasn’t wrong. The young noble resorted to throwing a last glance upon the willow up on the hill.
“Come to think of it though, my son, I do remember seeing the letter,” the Duke rambled on. “And I remember handing it over to the butler so it may get delivered quickly.” Astarion turned away a little further once more from his father as he felt his composure threatening to break fully. “A difference of opinions maybe?,” his father finished.
Astarion didn’t see the slight tilt of the corners of his father’s mouth as he let the words roll off his tongue, not hiding his distaste for the young Brimstone.
The young Ancunín only could feel the final nail being put into the coffin with his father’s final words. His last string of hope he had been holding onto snapped in two just like that.
“Possibly,” Astarion simply replied, kneading his hands in his lap, emotions threatening to overwhelm him fully.
“Maybe even more than that,” he added after a while as he finally let his gaze fall from the last sight of his hometown.
Had he averted his eyes just a moment later he would have made out the figure of a dark-skinned, green-haired young man appearing beneath the weeping willow in the storm. But like this, thunder cracked as the carriage took a turn and Astarion’s home and his lifelong friend went out of sight.
Fixed error where punching Godey sometimes leads to a blank screen. Please continue to punch Godey.
You now have to have seen the mouse before you can tell Astarion about the mouse.
Clerics and paladins can now pray for help before resting. It does about as much as one might expect.
Fixed error where poking the Nightmare sometimes locks you out of resting. There was some poetry to that, but it also made the game impossible to continue.
Fixed Malarthi's extremely strange startup error. I think.
Non-rogues can now figure out how the tomb door opens and oil its hinges.
If you have Speech 3 or higher, you can now say a special, elf-specific greeting on day 161.
Astarion will now sometimes criticize your grammar.
Replaced the necklace with a burial shroud for Act 2 reasons.
You can now ask Astarion about the skeleton in the hallway.
Color coded the companions. I am accepting feedback on this. Feel free to argue with me about my choices about anyone except for Gale.
Added a custom response for the name 'Andar.'
You can now attempt to be Drizzt.
New feat: Vampire Enrichment
Added Options menu with Accessibility options to adjust Font Size and enter Color Blind mode.
Made the text in 'Practice Existing' more comprehensible.
Adjusted how the game displays on phones to make things more accessible and readable.
Adjusted how the game displays so that when you are inside the sarcophagus the text will now always be trapped within the bounds of the sarcophagus frame, no matter how much you resize the screen.
Minor typo fixes.
Please let me know if any of these fixes caused new errors!
Fixed error where you can be trapped eternally talking about the teddy bear. That's a different nightmare.
Druids with high Speech can now purr.
Added a different sound effect that plays when you achieve one of the 'Dark' feats.
Fixed error with Gale's spells in the Campsite Intermission. Gale Approves.
Astarion having access to water or Clive now has a more significant effect on his health.
Astarion will now pause to examine all the mysteriously appearing things he finds in the tomb. This may interfere with him getting projects done, but he doesn't know there's a time limit so really can't be blamed.
Made preloading images actually work.
Astarion will now respond in interesting ways if you:
Give him the knife immediately after the ooze attack.
Give him the knife after the ghost attack.
Ask how he is after he successfully drinks blood.
Ask how he is after the ghost attack.
Added new feats:
Irritate the Bastellus
Wyllstarion
Renovated a hallway in the Szarr Palace dungeon. It now has new wall-spikes that you can break to annoy Godey. This replaces the door-latches that you used to be able to unfasten to annoy Godey. These have been removed as they created the mistaken impression that escape was possible, which is against Szarr Palace policy.
Adjusted the description of the stone door to make it extra-super-clear that escape is impossible and that all your efforts are hopeless.
Fixed the sound effect that plays when your friends help you escape.
Act 3 is finished! It's part of this year's Interactive Fiction Competition.
Because of the nature of the competition I had to release Act 3 as a stand-alone game. It's a very odd entry--fan fiction and the third part of a series. I haven't the faintest idea how well it will do, but it's the game my brain wanted to make and I enjoy participating.
You can play Act 3 here. It has a quick-play option that summarizes the first two acts, or you can import your save file from Act 1 or 2.
I'm going to consolidate all the acts and release them as a single game once the competition is over, so if transferring saves is too much bother just wait for that.
The competition welcomes all players to participate by voting on games as long as they follow a few rules. But you can also just go and play. It's a strange and silly place with a lot of experiments and raw stories. My favorite game so far is Deliquescence, which is short but meaningful. And Redjackets is a game about a vampire murdering their abusive sire! Good stuff. Astarion Approves.
A/N: So we kind of all had a collective feverdream on a Discord server and what came from it was this Astarion x Staeve Regency AU - namely Brimsterton.
Much of this originated when we went ham on the server and ping-ponged ideas around. So, many of these ideas were a collective effort with credit specifically going to @somewhatclear @silmaryel and @astarions-pervert-goth-wife. Thank you guys, mwa! That was so much fun.
And ofc also big thanks to @velnna who keeps letting me play with his blorbo. Staeve is my favourite barbie doll! <3
Will I ever come back to this? We will see...
~~~
Summary: Astarion Ancunín, only heir to his family's estate and name, finds himself back in his hometown. Suddenly Duke after his parents untimely demise duty demands he takes matters in his own hands and goes towards an unsure future.
But back home is still the same: the same old people, the same old fields. The same old memories, the same old yearning as he meets his childhood friend Staeve again - the reason why he left in the first place all these years ago.
Pairing: Astarion/Staeve
Wordcount: 1,7k
Warnings: mention of character death
The message about his parent’s death had reached Astarion through a courier letter as he had been attending a social gathering. A disease had withered them away more quickly than anyone could’ve had believed. He was duke now. He now owned the estate.
He’d read the words. And a second time and a third. Then he had excused himself without further words and had gone home to pack.
Had someone observed him they would have probably only thought he’d encountered a mild inconvenience. Nothing of consequence really.
And Astarion would have preferred it if had been nothing but a minor inconvenience. That he didn’t have to return to his hometown, to his parents’ - no his - estate now.
But duty demanded it. And duty, in the end, had always been the master that the young duke had bowed to.
On the inside though, conflicting emotions had been wreaking havoc: a certain sadness about all of this, surely, but more than that fear, concern, lodging below his ribs.
But deeper another thing entirely had reared its head: a spark of yearning suddenly being reignited, that he thought had gone cold a long time ago. Almost ten years ago, to be exact.
But as he had quickly arranged for everything to be packed up, a carriage to be sent and for a message to be delivered to a friend to hopefully accompany him on this trip that was bound to become a disaster, he felt his mind preoccupied not with thoughts of mourning. He had barely remembered to request for his all black attire to be laid out for him as visions of forest green hair, teal eyes and that wicked grin flashed through his mind - long past, but surely not forgotten. Never forgotten.
And with memories of old clouding his mind, he had begun his journey towards home - and an unsure future.
Coming home had hurt.
Not merely because of the harsh reality of Astarion’s parents' untimely end. Because this was obviously all very tragic and unfortunate of course.
But in truth he had been estranged from his parents for as long as he could remember. And it had gotten worse over the ten years he had been spending apart from them - and there. Scarce letters had been his only bridge to a past he usually tried to forget.
The real pain though, as the carriage rattled down the rough roads to his past home, had lingered in how everything was still the same.
The same flower fields being turned into grassy seas of green speckled with colour by the wind rushing through them. The same rocks the carriage’s axle struggled not to break under. The same sky painted grey with a storm that might or might not come. The same small town, the same houses, the same ancient weeping willow up on the hill.
The same people.
The same memories.
The same pain pestering him as his hometown came into view after the same final turn of the road.
The same ache he had felt when leaving all those years ago.
Not even Jenevelle accompanying him and laying a calming hand on his knee as Astarion had kept staring out of the carriage window, with his arm propped up and his hand pressed to his cheek, had been able to soothe this particular pain.
Stoically, he had carried on, just the same.
He’d been welcomed at the Ancunín estate with everyone of the staff wearing black and sullen faces. All of them had waited in a line before the manor. Awaiting the new duke with heavy, grieving hearts.
And word of the young duke returning home must’ve had travelled fast because almost immediately after he had received the staff’s condolences, shaking everyone’s hands and exchanging the customary friendly words and sad smiles, people from town had made visits.
There had been more handshakes, eyes full of understanding, even some tears had shed and Astarion’s shoulder patted more often than he would have liked. And even a few confused glances as people noticed his company of a young fair haired woman without the accompanying rings on either of their hands. But at least the shock about his parents’ untimely demise and the grief laying on the whole place like a sheet had spared him the judgement.
It hadn’t spared him of people coddling him though.
So now here he was at a small get-together at someone else’s estate. Having been pushed to attend because visitors had felt guilty about leaving the mourning man alone at this giant estate where everything must be reminding him of the family he had just lost.
Astarion would have much rather stayed at the Ancunín estate. But he couldn’t have exactly told anyone that. Not when polite and caring invitations had been made - and duty demanded of him to kindly take them up on it.
Unfortunately, the small get-together had also turned out to be a not small at all ball. People were dancing and drinking. And then quickly hiding their smiles behind their hands, putting on masks of sadness and concern as soon as they spotted him.
The evening had been filled with more people crowding around Astarion, grabbing his hand to offer him words of support and understanding or a story about his parents he had to pretend he hadn’t heard a million times yet.
Finally, after Astarion had badly mimicked almost breaking into tears after having been told the same story of how his parents had organised that one particular ball, everyone in town still remembered, for the fourth time in a row, he had been left alone. And thankfully even Jenevelle had, after throwing him another asking look, just went to explore the event on her own.
Now the young duke was sitting in a corner alone, holding on to what was now his third cup of wine, as he observed the couples turning on the dancefloor. He watched through people passing by and obnoxious, incredibly pretentious and tasteless low hanging palm leafs from trees that had been placed everywhere. At least they also provided for a nice and rather hidden corner where Astarion had fled so as to not be approached by griefing townsfolk anymore.
Cheerful dance music drifted through the air and the sweet smell of spring flower bouquets filled the massive room as gauzy skirts in all kinds of pastel colours swished over the floors with young ladies smiling coyly and young men nearly falling at their feet for just one of those smiles.
Even as Astarion found himself not as closely moved by grief as people expected him to be, he found it all abhorrent.
It were the same tasteless people with their same tiny mindsets only reaching from here to the next bigger city and their same annoying and boring soirees.
There had only ever been the one person who had made this place interesting.
Astarion downed the rest of the wine in one big gulp and got up to grab another one while wondering how much longer he would need to stay for it to not be considered rude.
He spotted a servant with a silver tray carrying new drinks in crystal glasses - unfortunately almost on the other side of the room. With a curse under his breath he began moving through the crowd, his head held low to avoid eye contact and more people feeling the need to talk to him, reach for him, console him.
As he passed the edge of the dancefloor he made the mistake of looking up and across the dancefloor where couples were still happily moving in endless twists and turns.
And found the sight he’d been fearing most for. Or yearning for. Astarion really wasn’t quite sure.
On the other side of the dancefloor stood the inspiration and source for those pictures and memories plaguing him since he had sat down in that carriage travelling here. And that ache. And that longing.
The trillering joyful music drifting through the air suddenly seemed muted, time almost slowed down as all those images suddenly came together all at once.
He looked almost like he remembered - the only thing he was not mad about for being the same.
Long dark green hair messily tied back, clothes fine but just a tad dishevelled as to let everyone around know that he wasn’t just like everyone else around. That he didn’t fear to be a little rough around the edges. Teal and black eyes were glinting just as vividly as in Astarion’s memories as he was talking to some lady and lazily holding his cup of wine by the rim.
And then there was his smile. That wicked smile curling up the corners of his lips as he listened to his companion talk.
The freckles on his dark skin had gotten a little more intense and plenty, Astarion could immediately tell. They suited him just as nicely though as they had back then. There were a few lines around his mouth and eyes now and his face just a little leaner, having lost the softness and immaturity of youth in the flesh. But - as Astarion kept being transfixed by watching him - not his manners or his mind it looked like.
Staeve.
Almost all the same.
As were Astarion’s emotions, finally having torn themselves free from below the worry and the fear. The twinge of longing setting his chest ablaze, threatening to let him burn up right on the spot. His heart began to thunder and his hands still clutching the goblet started to tremble as he stood there rooted in place and beholding the sight of the man that had made him leave his home so many years ago.
Then Staeve’s expression changed. Eyebrows drew together and his eyes darted to the side. As if he had caught on that he was being watched. His head flew around, probably rudely interrupting his date’s words and immediately spotting Astarion.
The young duke immediately felt the heat spread to his cheeks and he hastily tried to turn away as if nothing had happened.
But Staeve didn’t even waste a heartbeat to smile at him, deepening the lines around his mouth and eyes even further. The moment drew out between two heartbeats, feeling endless, as they laid eyes upon each other after ten years apart.
Then Staeve lifted his cup in greeting - as if it had only been yesterday.
And only then did Astarion feel that he had returned home.
But the rest of him was buried, buried, buried, the unshakeable fear of a recurring nightmare, of having been once again left to starve for twelve moons, curled on one side in the unfeeling embrace of marble, death and ancient mould his only companions.
astarion gets buried in a cave-in. staeve digs him out, and deals with the aftermath.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/58206559
loosely set after this comic by @velnna because i'm still insane about them and about the writing in it. thank you as always for letting me play with your boy, i'm never gonna starve.
“Excuse me,” Vesta whispered, gathering all the courage he had. “Do you need help?”
The stranger hadn’t heard him approach. He started badly, his body twitching upright, flattening against the wall like a cornered animal. His eyes were a brilliant, unreal red, the only spot of real colour almost glowing in the grey-scale darkness surrounding them.
what if staeve and astarion met earlier than the tadpole? let's say much earlier.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/56831857
vesta aka staeve belongs to @velnna thank you as always for letting me play with your boy mwa mwa ♥
Fixed error where punching Godey sometimes leads to a blank screen. Please continue to punch Godey.
You now have to have seen the mouse before you can tell Astarion about the mouse.
Clerics and paladins can now pray for help before resting. It does about as much as one might expect.
Fixed error where poking the Nightmare sometimes locks you out of resting. There was some poetry to that, but it also made the game impossible to continue.
Fixed Malarthi's extremely strange startup error. I think.
Non-rogues can now figure out how the tomb door opens and oil its hinges.
If you have Speech 3 or higher, you can now say a special, elf-specific greeting on day 161.
Astarion will now sometimes criticize your grammar.
Replaced the necklace with a burial shroud for Act 2 reasons.
You can now ask Astarion about the skeleton in the hallway.
Color coded the companions. I am accepting feedback on this. Feel free to argue with me about my choices about anyone except for Gale.
Added a custom response for the name 'Andar.'
You can now attempt to be Drizzt.
New feat: Vampire Enrichment
Added Options menu with Accessibility options to adjust Font Size and enter Color Blind mode.
Made the text in 'Practice Existing' more comprehensible.
Adjusted how the game displays on phones to make things more accessible and readable.
Adjusted how the game displays so that when you are inside the sarcophagus the text will now always be trapped within the bounds of the sarcophagus frame, no matter how much you resize the screen.
Minor typo fixes.
Please let me know if any of these fixes caused new errors!
A/N: So as I've mentioned before, answering an ask, there's more Regency AU shenanigans with these two. This wonderful, amazing artwork is even a scene happening in this very fic! This brainworm is very deep in my head still, so you'll have to bare with me.
@velnna thanks as always for letting me play with your son! And also: this piece is still giving me so many feelings, ugh, I love them.
Summary: Astarion Ancunín and Staeve Brimstone, the two most daring bachelors in town, are crashing a poor lady's soiree and end the night back at the Brimstone estate, laughing and talking on the chaise longue in Staeve's room. They've done this since they've been kids. But somehow, this night, something's different...
Pairing: Astarion/Staeve
Wordcount: 2,5k
Warnings: light nsfw at the end
~~~
Poor Marquess Wickleston hadn't had nearly a chance when the two most infamous bachelors in town had just appeared in the middle of the crowd of her soiree. Had it only been the son of this wicked Viscount Brimstone she wouldn’t have hesitated to throw him out. But as always he'd been in company of the son of Duke Ancunín. And to throw him out so publicly would have been a scandal of near astronomical grandeur.
And so she had begrudgingly watched the two men as they had riled up a group of recently introduced debutantes like kids chasing through a flock of pigeons for fun. Marquess Wickleston could only hope that this had been the epitome of the excitement as she was fanning herself to keep the simmering anger within her below a boiling point. With a smile plastered onto her face she watched and hoped that neither of the men would have actually dared to defile one of the young ladies’ honour.
Or at least she hoped the young Ancunín hadn't, dashing as he was. As for Staeve Brimstone - well, there wasn't much of a family name or reputation to uphold anyways.
Which had made people question frequently why exactly the Ancuníns had allowed their only son to linger with this nouveau rich family’s offspring. But Astarion and Staeve had been thick as thieves from a young age on. No one had dared to tear them apart - yet.
“Eventually these two will have to part ways,” Marquis Wickleston interrupted his wife's thoughts, watching the two young men as they each asked a young lady for a dance and thus made the whole group giggle once more. Two roosters causing havoc in the henhouse, truly.
The Marquess scoffed disapprovingly, her fan gaining speed, sending bits of ostrich feathers flying.
“Life will handle it, my dear,” she replied to her husband, scrunching up her nose as she watched Staeve twirl one of the women under their looped arms, causing screeches of delight and jealousy from the onlookers.
“The time will come when they realise a mutt will always remain a mutt no matter how much finery you put him in or how much expensive champagne you let him drink,” the noble woman concluded before she turned away, sharply letting her fan snap shut.
And many a cup of said expensive champagne had been drained to the bottom that night. A kiss or two had been stolen from one of the young ladies in a dark corner or outside, around the bend of a neatly trimmed hedge. Quite a few hackles had been raised in the process.
All in all, a party had been very adequately crashed.
It had been deep in the night when the two friends had made their way back from the Wickleston to the Brimstone estate. Barely able to hold on to Rhapsody’s and Freckle’s reins as they had been laughing the whole ride back. The way had been generously lit by the full moon of an early summer night. The days were warm already. But the nights still had a tendency to creep up on you, leaving you shivering and yearning for warmth.
So now, Staeve and Astarion were huddled together on the chaise longue in Staeve’s rooms like they had done so many times since they had been kids - looking for a bit of that warmth. And they found it almost involuntarily as they struggled to find space for the two of them. Two rascal boys had grown into debonair young men, while the piece of furniture had become to betray its name. Still, they lounged on it in a mess of limbs - somehow sitting, laying and sliding down on it all at the same time.
Doublets had been dismissively discarded, boots thrown off with a snicker before they had padded over polished wooden floors and plush carpets to let themselves fall down in woozy exhaustion. Even their loose linen shirts beneath were starting to look severely dishevelled as they had given up on holding up a facade of decency
But who even cared, in the low light of a hastily lit lantern, that only made sure they wouldn’t trip.
In front of them on a low table was another bottle of champagne they had taken as a little parting gift for themselves. The fancy crystal looked a little displaced in between the mess on there: books about oddly specific topics, some hardware and tools, some craft projects Staeve used to play around with in his free time.
Only a small horse figurine at one corner made out of painted porcelain, was spared from the mess. As it had been for as long as it had been carefully placed there.
The glass door behind them, was still half open from when they had snuck in from the moonlit gardens to not wake any of the residents of the Brimstone manor. All while shushing each other dramatically time and again and desperately trying not to burst into outright howling laughter until they had finally made it to Staeve’s rooms - and onto the chaise longue.
Oh, how many nights had ended just like this.
They were so effortlessly close to each other, a kind of unspoken familiarity between them. Something only they could share. Although for a while now there had been a new quality to their closeness. One of those things that was easily identified by someone from the outside looking in; but not the other way around.
Laughter spilled from their lips like bubbles had from the near empty bottle in front of them as they joked and talked: two friends making sure that life wouldn't catch up with them for a while longer. Not yet.
“My father will certainly receive a letter of concern from Marquess Wickleston,” Astarion said at one point, accompanied by a massive eye roll. But then he immediately broke into a high pitched giggle, remembering how the lady of the house had made the feathers of her fan fly in agitation.
“At least your family only receives the concerned letters,” Staeve replied and reached for the bottle once more. “Mine only ever receives enraged ones, bordering on outright insulting.” He lifted the bottle to his lips but found that there was but mere drops of champagne left. With a dramatic sigh he set it down again and with a bit of drunken swagger propped up his arm on his knee and then his face on his hand. He threw the bottle an accusatory look. As if it was its own fault for being downed so quickly.
“Well, I fear soon there won’t be any of those letters anymore. Not once I'm sent off on the Grand Tour,” Astarion replied in a dry tone - nearly as dry as the bottom of the empty champagne bottle he nudged around the low table with his naked foot now. He draped an arm over his eyes as he leaned back so far, one couldn’t have told if he was rather sitting or lying down.
Silence followed his words as Astarion had brought back that sombre reality they had unspokenly agreed to leave behind for at least this night.
But here it was, caught up quicker than they would have hoped. Life always did these days, unfortunately.
The quiet fell onto them like a sheet as they each pondered on those words.
Indeed, some time ago, after Astarion had acted weirdly around him for a good while, Staeve had been able to wrangle out of him that his family wanted him to finally take his education seriously. The ultimatum had been to either take up studies at a university or go on the Grand Tour over the continent.
In the end, the choice hadn’t been hard. But it still had been either the knife or the gun: only an illusion of choice if the outcome was to be the same.
The Ancunín name came with responsibilities and expectations and Astarion was meant to fulfil them. There was no debate on the matter. They both knew that.
But not tonight. And not for some to come.
“Say when did that start again, your wretched little trip? Wasn’t it only at the beginning of autumn? That is still far off,” Staeve blabbered with a grin splitting his face. An attempt to lighten the mood once more. “Who’s to tell if we haven’t grown bored of each other before then,” he joked.
As if.
He turned around to Astarion, expecting to be met with a similar smirk and a quick-witted response to his slander.
But Astarion had only sunken deeper into the cushions, not even looking at him.
Staeve’s heart sank. He felt like something was slowly slipping from his fingers. Not even fully knowing what it was.
“What will I do without you?”
Astarion’s words were terribly silent. Deafeningly so.
Slowly, Staeve leaned back while Astarion was still avoiding his gaze.
“Hey,” he whispered to his friend, softly touching his shoulder while simultaneously trying not to tipsily lose balance doing so. “You won’t get rid of me that easily, Astarion.”
No reaction.
“I’ll write you letters every week,” Staeve promised, bumping his shoulder with Astarion’s.
Only then did he get a rise out of the other. Astarion’s eyes snapped to his, a corner of his mouth shortly twitching upwards. “Tsk, if you’re calling these abominations you come up with letters, I might be better off without you after all.”
Staeve’s heart jumped happily, as much in relief as for the wicked glimmer in those crimson eyes on him now.
“Alright, see if I care,” Staeve took him up on the banter, happy to have found at least an inkling of the usual snark within his friend. They both snickered, sliding further down the chair, ending up increasingly squished together as space became a rarity on the altogether too small seat.
“It won’t be the same though,” Astarion whispered after a while, once the laughter had dried up again and Staeve’s head had come to rest on his shoulder, eyes closed.
“Like what?” Staeve mumbled as he felt the pull of drunken slumber luring him, with the comfort of Astarion beside him.
More silence spread.
It was almost when he had drifted off to sleep that he heard Astarion reply.
“Like this.”
It pulled him back, immediately. Something in the tone of the other man once more making Staeve’s heart leap. If out of fear, hope, excitement, he couldn’t tell. It was enough at least to make him push himself up on one of his arms and focus all of his energy to look at his lifelong friend - really look at him.
And there he was, with his white curls all messed up just like his clothes, cheeks blushed from too much alcohol and feelings that had gone unspoken. Red eyes big and shining in the low light and soft lips slightly agape.
He was beautiful. Had he always been like that? When had he become this beautiful?
Staeve felt how his heart started to thunder, fingers beginning to tremble as he took in a face he’d known for a lifetime - that yet suddenly felt so surprisingly and pleasantly different.
He leaned over him, eliciting a small gasp from Astarion whose hand flew to Staeve’s chest. Not pushing away but not pulling him in further either.
And he understood. As he kept hovering over Astarion, watching how the other’s lip quivered slightly, eyes jumping between his, he understood a great deal.
There were no words all of a sudden. Maybe there never had or would be.
But thankfully the last bit of distance was so simple to bridge now.
Staeve slowly but with determination let his face lower to Astarion’s, heart galloping, heat rushing all through his body. He was eager to close the gap.
But still he halted, giving Astarion a final chance to remove himself, to push him away.
It didn’t happen.
The last inch was conquered so quickly. He saw Astarion’s eyes widen, a gasp half leaving pale lips and breath washing over his face before the rest was swallowed by Staeve.
And then they were kissing.
Mouths moved against each other. Slowly at first, careful, not believing that this was suddenly the reality that had caught up with them.
But once there, they moved past hesitancy quickly, sliding down on the chaise longue until Staeve was above Astarion, the kiss growing deeper as something unfolded between them.
Both got more confident with every thundering heartbeat shared between them. Staeve’s tongue slipped into the other man’s mouth, greeted eagerly. Hands were quickly wandering over already messed up shirts and buried in hair, trying desperately to grab hold.
Astarion tasted of the champagne they had shared, smelled of the stables where they had tied up their horses. But deeper down, there was something more unique. And Staeve was desperate to taste it to the fullest.
What had been pent up suddenly needed out all at once. Their tongues swirled around each other’s while gasps and silent moans filled the former silence. Staeve cupped Astarion’s face as he felt the smaller man’s hands wander down his body, all the way down to where all the tension was manifesting achingly. He felt no shame feeling the other’s hands there, exploring what he finally realised he’d been feeling for a long time. And when he finally lowered the full weight of his body on Astarion, being rewarded with a breathless gasp, he drank up just like the drinks they’ve had all night long, he knew the other must feel the same thrilling need. The same desperate desire surfacing all at once.
An eternity passed as they lay there, wrapped up in and rubbing against each other, everything else forgotten. The kiss and their hands exploring each other’s bodies leaving scorching trails wherever they wandered. A sensation so intense it felt like it would leave them visibly marked.
Staeve’s hand was about to dip below the waistline of Astarion’s trousers. They had broken away from each other’s lips for just a moment. Their eyes, full of yearning, burning into each other as pale fingers wrapped around Staeve’s wrist as he was about to cross this final line.
Then there was a sudden noise, a door opening.
Immediately, Staeve jumped up from his position over his friend, stuffing his shirt back to where Astarion had pulled it from his trousers in the desperate need to feel skin.
He was met with a deep scowl on his sister’s face, Nita.
“Sister!” Staeve yelled at her, trying to make anger cover up the sudden panic he felt burning on his face. “Can you knock, perhaps?”
“Can you come home and not wake up the whole manor - perhaps?” his sister simply gave back, raising a single eyebrow.
She said nothing more, just stared at her brother. Then her eyes flicked behind him for a split second.
Staeve held her gaze while still trying to make himself look decent again, not knowing how to move on.
“Astarion and I…,” he began and turned around to where they had both been, just moments ago, holding onto each other.
But the chaise longue was empty.
Only the glass door to the gardens was opened a bit farther than before, letting in the cold of the night.
Fixed error where punching Godey sometimes leads to a blank screen. Please continue to punch Godey.
You now have to have seen the mouse before you can tell Astarion about the mouse.
Clerics and paladins can now pray for help before resting. It does about as much as one might expect.
Fixed error where poking the Nightmare sometimes locks you out of resting. There was some poetry to that, but it also made the game impossible to continue.
Fixed Malarthi's extremely strange startup error. I think.
Non-rogues can now figure out how the tomb door opens and oil its hinges.
If you have Speech 3 or higher, you can now say a special, elf-specific greeting on day 161.
Astarion will now sometimes criticize your grammar.
Replaced the necklace with a burial shroud for Act 2 reasons.
You can now ask Astarion about the skeleton in the hallway.
Color coded the companions. I am accepting feedback on this. Feel free to argue with me about my choices about anyone except for Gale.
Added a custom response for the name 'Andar.'
You can now attempt to be Drizzt.
New feat: Vampire Enrichment
Added Options menu with Accessibility options to adjust Font Size and enter Color Blind mode.
Made the text in 'Practice Existing' more comprehensible.
Adjusted how the game displays on phones to make things more accessible and readable.
Adjusted how the game displays so that when you are inside the sarcophagus the text will now always be trapped within the bounds of the sarcophagus frame, no matter how much you resize the screen.
Minor typo fixes.
Please let me know if any of these fixes caused new errors!
